“James Dyson,” she moaned,
\n“Thou art a god.
\nProvider and Patron Saint
\nOf every housewife ever
\nTo wipe sweat from her brow.”
\n
\nThe Dyson series,
\n(Grape, cherry, lemon,
\nLike a honeymoon in Vegas
\nWhere the slots always hit jackpot.)
\nThe triumvirate of clean superiority
\nHad thrust its way into her home
\nWith all its pop art pizazz and multicolored machismo.
\nIt dumped her matronly, brown and olive bags
\nOut on the curb next to the garbage can
\nAnd gave the veritable whoremaster among them,
\nThe Kirby,
\nA personified kick in the groin.<\/p>\n
Its adoration won, it celebrates
\nBy whipping out its hose attachment
\nAnd charging up the stairwell,
\nLightly powdered with Carpet Fresh.
\nPulling at the rug, giving a thorough rub down,
\nIt’s cyclone spins fevrishly and it sucks at everything.
\nSucks at every string, thread, fiber.<\/p>\n
A key rattles in the lock
\nOf the front door.
\nHusband Dearest is home.<\/p>\n
“What did you do today?” he asks,
\nAppealing to her needs
\nIn the hopes that she will do the same.<\/p>\n
“I vacuumed the floor,” she replies,
\n“And I made chicken for dinner.”<\/p>\n
“Carpet and chicken,” he tries to appear as though he’s musing.
\nShe sees he is really just hinting.<\/p>\n
“Sounds good to me,” she concedes.
\nHe chases her playfully up the stairs,
\nShe moves fast enough not to be questioned,
\nSlow enough to tell she’s got other things to contend with.
\nThe carpet they tread upon still had guilty wheel tracks in it.<\/p>\n
Just like the beginning, she’s once again high off the Summer Breeze.
\nThe only difference is that this breeze came from a can.<\/p>\n
And the Dyson hides under the stairs,
\nA sly paramour,
\nAnd listens to the footsteps overhead with a grin.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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